


A Handful of Dust

by laquearia



Category: Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game), 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: BAMF Midoriya Izuku, Forbidden Love, Horizon Zero Dawn AU, Hunters, Izuku is the only one who can control them, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Recovering World, Robots have replaced animals and monsters, Todoroki Enji | Endeavor Being An Asshole, Todoroki Enji | Endeavor's Bad Parenting, Todoroki hunts the monsters, conflicting ideals, dystopian au, episodic storytelling, introspective storytelling, tribal au, tribal themes mixed with future technology, you don't have to have played the game to follow this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 03:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laquearia/pseuds/laquearia
Summary: Todoroki Shouto is seven years old when he holds a bow for the first time, the solid length of pliant wood and metal weave pressed into the palm of his hand like a blessing rather than a curse. He can’t pull the bowstring all the way back yet or shoot straight to save his life, but that doesn’t stop his father from drilling Shouto until tears prick his eyes and his hands blister and bleed, skin unable to form calluses quickly enough.“Again,” his father snaps, tossing several more harvest arrows at his son’s feet with disgust etched into every crevice of his expression.Shouto doesn’t know any better. He simply does as he is told.(In which Todoroki Shouto is taught to do nothing more than hunt the feral machines that walk the Earth beside humankind, and Midoriya Izuku has a slightly different perspective about what makes life valuable. A dystopian tribal AU based on the video gameHorizon Zero Dawn. Knowledge of the video game is not necessarily required to read this.)





	A Handful of Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I know I'm supposed to be working on Roots right now, but this AU idea wouldn't leave my head so I wrote it down really quick before I forgot it. This is the result of that.
> 
> If you don't know shit about Horizon Zero Dawn, take a minute to watch [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4-FCsiF5x4&t=93s) short clip to kind of get an idea about the general aesthetic I'm going for here. You don't have to have played the game to understand this piece, but knowing what their clothes and some of the machines look like can help a bit. 
> 
> This won't be long, but I love doing shit no one else in this fandom has ever really attempted (as far as I'm aware, at least). Also, this is super unedited. Whatever. Enjoy!

Todoroki Shouto is seven years old when he holds a bow for the first time, the solid length of pliant wood and metal weave pressed into the palm of his hand like a blessing rather than a curse. He can’t pull the bowstring all the way back yet or shoot straight to save his life, but that doesn’t stop his father from drilling Shouto until tears prick his eyes and his hands blister and bleed, skin unable to form calluses quickly enough.

“You will be the finest hunter Meridian has ever seen,” his father tells him one day, ignoring the way his son’s fingers stain the bowstring crimson in the waning light of early evening. “No son of mine will be defenseless against those damned machines.”

Shouto sniffles and hiccups, arms shaking under the strain his bones aren’t strong enough to handle, and he looses another barbed-tip harvest arrow that sails wide of its target. It lodges in the sunbaked red rock of the cliffside instead, blue and orange feathers rippling as the end of the arrow vibrates with the impact. The sting of a willow switch once again bites into the bare skin of Shouto’s back; he tastes blood behind his teeth and tries to withhold his whimper.

“Again,” his father snaps, tossing several more harvest arrows at his son’s feet with disgust etched into every crevice of his expression.

Shouto doesn’t know any better. He simply does as he is told.

 

* * *

 

Shouto is twelve when he kills his first machine on a late-night hunt with Touya in the thick forests south of Meridian. It’s a Scrapper machine and not a particularly _clean_ kill—torn chillwater tubes leak blue-white liquid incandescence into the decomposing, trampled leaves underneath its carcass and sparks sizzle and sputter from every joint like the forges in the city marketplace—but Touya squeezes his shoulder anyway and tells him he did well. Pride floods his lungs with feather-light hesitance, swelling inside his chest until he swears he could walk on air if only he tried.

Touya shows him how to deconstruct the machine piece by piece, prying apart its grimy plates with the tip of his spear to delve inside and remove all the important bits that can be sold, salvaged, and repurposed. They manage to find some luminous braiding and a mostly-intact canister of metalburn amongst the carnage, but those don’t go for much in the Meridian markets these days. Hardly worth keeping, honestly. Touya tells him that he should wait to inform their father about Shouto’s first kill until he has a heart to show for it, or maybe an intact set of lenses worth selling to the merchants in the Hunter’s Lodge. A mere Scrapper won’t please Endeavor. Especially not when the carcass looks like _this—_ all shorn metal and frayed wires, twisted circuit boards and the scent of singed electronics.

Later that evening when Endeavor asks about the fruits of their hunting excursion at dinner, Shouto focuses on tearing apart the crust of his bread and shrugs noncommittally. Touya does the talking instead, purposefully leaving out the fact that Shouto killed the Scrapper, and instead recounts their run-in with a cloaked Stalker machine in the jungle near the ox-bowed river three miles south of the estate. It’s enough to distract Endeavor for the time being.

The sundial’s shadow continues to grow longer by the hour, and Shouto feels every darkened millimeter in his bones.

_He’s running out of time._

 

* * *

 

Shouto kills a Sawtooth on the eve of his fifteenth name day. It’s pure happenstance that he manages to sink a tearblast arrow right in the center of the machine’s gaping maw, and even more impossible that his follow-up precision arrow sinks into one of its glowing yellow eyes. The creature stutters in its movements and trips over its mechanical feet, letting out a screech of torn metal that splits Shouto’s senses wide open and makes him cover his ears for fear of going deaf. He doesn’t stop shaking even long after the Sawtooth has ceased to stir, and it’s even longer before he feels he can breathe once again.

He knows he should feel some kind of victory as he yanks the machine’s heart from its place amongst the wires and cables embedded in its chest, trimming translucent filaments to make it more presentable for his father and the Hunter’s Lodge where it will be displayed. He should feel content, he thinks. _Complete_. Satisfied that there’s one less machine in the world intent on killing them all.

He pointedly ignores the twinge of _something_ that pricks the center of his chest as he gazes upon the broken body of the Sawtooth. It’s bitter and slight, echoing in the cavern of his chest like a sour note of the bells in the high temple in Meridian.

He doesn’t dwell on the sensation for very long.

 

* * *

 

Shouto is seventeen years old when his father brushes ceremonial blue paint across Shouto’s cheekbones, claps him on the shoulder, and calls him, _“My son_ ,” with a tone that can almost be interpreted as pride.

The Hunter’s Lodge rejoices for its newest member, the offspring of the finest hunter in the Lodge’s history, and the celebration that follows lasts for three days and nights. Shouto is given a shiny Stormbird feather to weave between the small braids interspersed through his long hair, a new bow, and the acceptance of the people of Meridian as a member of the elite Hunter’s Lodge. The finest warriors in the world are there to welcome him, to invite him on great hunting trips for Thunderjaws and Rockbreakers, Behemoths and Deathbringers.

It’s supposed to feel like coming home. It’s supposed to feel _right_.

(It doesn’t really feel like anything at all.)

 

* * *

 

Shouto is nineteen years old and sitting on the edge of one of the balconies in the Meridian Hunter’s Lodge when he hears the rumor about the Nora warrior from the east who can speak to machines. Momo is the one who tells him, brows furrowed as she works to restring her tripcaster, tiny parts spread out meticulously on the table in front of her in neat rows.

“Impossible,” Shouto says, dismissing the claim as soon as she’s finished speaking. He gazes out across the shimmering turquoise clay roof tiles of the Meridian skyline, feeling the heat radiate off the sun-warmed stones of the city like a welcome caress. The mountains in the distance are a pale lavender color—the only thing separating the Carja people of Meridian from the Nora savages of the eastern lands, Shouto knows. He’s never seen the other side of them. No one has, save the Nora and a few scouts from Meridian. “Everyone knows the Nora don’t touch technology. They barely even bother hunting the machines, much less _talking_ to them.”

Momo shrugs. “Maybe their tribes have had a change of heart.”

“I doubt it.”

She hums, not looking up from her project. “I’m just telling you what Jirou told me. The scouts said they saw someone riding a Charger through the skeleton city just outside the Embrace. I don’t see why they’d lie about something like that.”

“Being away from Meridian for too long softens the mind,” he mumbles, swinging his legs aimlessly. Below him, the lower ring of the city bustles with travelers and merchants, the air smells ripe with astringent metalburn and the press of sweaty bodies—familiar and cloying, but grounding nonetheless _._ “The scouts are just telling stories, Momo. Fairytales to keep themselves entertained when the sun goes down.”

Her brows are knit as she glares down at her dismantled tripcaster, yanking two wires out of place with a grunt. She’s out of her armor today, instead wearing her regular Carja blazon outfit, midriff exposed and arms bared to the sun with her hair braided back with multicolored beads and Glinthawk feathers. The burgundy smears of war paint on her cheekbones are starting to dry and crack, sweat blurring the crisp edges of the bold strokes where they meet her pale golden skin.

“I don’t know,” she says after a moment, replacing her tearblast coil with deft movements. She glances out across the expansive view before them, eyes tracing the crooked teeth of mountains in the distance. “I think it’d be interesting if it were true.”

“It isn’t.”

“I said _if.”_

Shouto sighs through his teeth and toys with one of the clay beads woven throughout his braid, finger tracing the rigid edge of the razor-sharp Glinthawk feather he always wears in his hair. For a moment, he dares to imagine a faceless Nora savage riding on the back of a great Stormbird, tearing apart the sky at the seams with no effort, fur armor rippling in the wind and tribal tattoos gleaming.

“Well, I hope for our sake that it’s not true,” he says after a moment, fingers twisting the end of his braid mercilessly. He means every word, feels each syllable on the back of his tongue like metal shards, and grits his teeth against the discomfort.

Momo glances up, one pierced eyebrow raised. “Why do you say that?”

Shouto exhales. “Because if it is, then we don’t stand a chance.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?? Is this worth finishing? Idk. I'll mark it complete for now, but I may come back to it later if it gets enough interest and I have enough inspiration. We shall see! 
> 
> Let me know what you thought of it!
> 
>  
> 
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